Chapter 273

Finnegan’s POV

I never expected to see her again. When I orchestrated my own death six years ago, I'd convinced myself it was the only way to protect her. To shield her from the dangerous web I'd become entangled in. Yet here she was, standing outside my hotel suite door for over an hour, desperate to check on me after my gastritis flared up during that meeting.

Through the security monitor, I watched her shifting uncomfortably in the hallway, clutching the medication bag like it was a lifeline. Her dedication would be touching if it weren't so dangerous. For both of us.

"Sir, she's still out there," Vivian observed, nodding toward the monitor. "It's been over an hour."

I wheeled myself closer to the screen, studying Ophelia's face. The years had changed her—hardened her in some ways, but her eyes still held that same stubborn determination I remembered. The same woman who had once stayed by my hospital bed for three days straight when I'd been injured years ago.

"Should I ask her to leave?" Vivian inquired.

I found myself hesitating. Logic dictated yes—maintain distance, stick to the plan. But something else, something buried deep beneath my carefully constructed facade, whispered no.

"Open the door," I finally instructed. "Let her in."

As Vivian complied, I quickly composed myself, arranging my features into that mask of cold indifference I'd perfected. The door swung open, and Ophelia rushed in, her eyes immediately scanning the room until they found me.

"Is he alright? How is he feeling? Has he taken the medication?" The questions tumbled out of her in a breathless rush.

Before Vivian could answer, Riley darted from his room, face lighting up when he spotted her. "Ophelia! You're back!" He grabbed her hand, tugging her closer.

I observed their interaction with a complicated mixture of emotions.

"Are you feeling better?" Ophelia asked, finally addressing me directly.

"Yes," I answered curtly, avoiding her searching gaze.

Her eyes fell on the medication I'd placed on the side table—still unopened. "You haven't taken it?"

"I had my own medication," I explained, the words sounding hollow even to my own ears.

Understanding dawned in her eyes, followed quickly by hurt. "So you sent me to get medication just to get me out of the way?"

The accusation hung in the air between us. I said nothing, which was answer enough.

"How stupid of me," she murmured, her voice cracking slightly. "I couldn't even see through that. I've been standing outside your door like a fool!"

She turned to leave, shoulders stiff with wounded pride. "I'm leaving. If you need anything, just call the front desk."

Vivian started to explain about the door lock malfunctioning, but I silenced her with a look. Better for Ophelia to believe I'd deliberately dismissed her than to give her any reason to stay.

"Close the door on your way out," I said coldly. "Thank you."

I watched her eyes redden, the moisture gathering at the corners. She was waiting—hoping—for me to stop her. Six years ago, I would have. But that man was dead, buried beneath layers of necessity and sacrifice.

Just as she reached the door, Riley called out, "Ophelia! Don't go!"

"Riley!" I warned sharply.

Riley froze momentarily, intimidated by my tone, but then stubbornly reached for Ophelia's hand again. "Dad, I'm hungry. Can Ophelia order lunch for us?"

I fixed him with a stern look, but he simply ducked behind Ophelia, seeking protection. To my dismay, she bent down and scooped him into her arms.

"You're scaring him," she admonished. "He's just a child."

"He's my son," I replied coldly. "I'll handle his discipline. It's not your concern."

"Right!" she shot back. "I have a daughter at home with no father. I have enough to worry about with her."

My hand trembled involuntarily at the mention of Ivy. Our daughter. The child who believed me dead. The momentary lapse in control didn't escape Ophelia's notice; her eyes narrowed slightly.

The tense atmosphere was suddenly broken by the shrill ring of Ophelia's phone. She hesitated, checking the screen. I watched her subtle reaction—the momentary indecision, the quick glance in my direction as if seeking permission. Or perhaps reaction. I maintained my indifferent facade, though my curiosity was piqued.

"Edward," she answered.

I tensed at the name, memories from my investigation the previous night with Lance flooding back. Edward Puth, my cousin. The one who'd been pursuing Ophelia for months according to Lance's intel. A man universally praised as the ideal husband and father material. A man who could give Ophelia everything I no longer could.

My feelings were frustratingly contradictory. Part of me—the selfish part—raged at the thought of her with another man, even my own cousin. I wanted her devotion preserved, untarnished by time or circumstance. Yet the rational part of me knew this was unfair. I'd orchestrated my death, deliberately severed our bond. If I truly loved her, shouldn't I want her to move forward, to find happiness?

Perhaps this was for the best. Edward could give her the life I no longer could. He could be a father to Ivy. While I remained in the shadows, watching over them both from a distance, living in Ophelia's world under a different identity.

The call ended quickly, and an awkward silence settled over us.

Riley, oblivious to the underlying currents, asked Ophelia, "What would you like for lunch, Ophelia?"

"Ophelia, can you eat with Dad and me?" he pleaded.

She hesitated, glancing in my direction. Against my better judgment, I found myself saying, "He doesn't know how to use forks. You can teach him." I turned my wheelchair toward my study, escaping the dangerous pull I still felt toward her.

"Ophelia! Dad said you can stay for lunch!!" Riley announced triumphantly.

"Alright!" she called after me, her voice carrying a forced lightness. "For Riley's sake, I'll stay. But for anyone else, I wouldn't be so generous!"

As I closed my study door, I leaned forward in my wheelchair, pressing my fingers against my temples. This wasn't part of the plan. None of it was. Seeing her again, having her so close yet maintaining this charade—it was proving more difficult than I'd anticipated.

The phone call from Edward still echoed in my mind. It was a painful reminder of the contradiction I now lived with. I'd investigated him thoroughly—a respected doctor, kind-hearted, stable. Everything Ophelia and Ivy deserved. Part of me hoped she would find happiness with him, that she would finally let go of my memory and move forward with her life. It would be the ultimate proof that my sacrifice hadn't been in vain.

Yet another part of me—a part I tried desperately to silence—burned with jealousy at the thought of her with anyone else. Even knowing I could never reclaim my place in her life, I still wanted her heart to remain mine alone. The selfishness of that desire wasn't lost on me.

Perhaps this was my punishment: to exist on the periphery of her world, close enough to see her but never to hold her. To watch another man potentially become what I once was to her. I'd accepted that fate when I decided to "die," choosing to live as someone else in her orbit rather than risk her safety by remaining Finnegan Shaw.

But I had no choice. Too much depended on Ophelia believing I was someone else now. Someone who didn't love her. Someone who didn't even know her.

If she ever discovered the truth, everything I'd done to protect her and Ivy would unravel. And that was a risk I couldn't afford to take.